


Order To Go

by tanyart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, McDonald's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:23:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small sequel to Pull Up, Pick Up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Order To Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written on April Fool's 2013, the original [prank summary here](http://lyricalt.dreamwidth.org/9622.html).

Things start getting suspicious the moment Maria offers to man the drive-thru window for the afternoon.  
  
“I really don’t like doing cashier,” Altair says, wary. He puts a hand over his headset, blocking Maria as she tries to reach for it. “Not that I  _can’t_  do it, obviously, but you know how much I hate dealing with people who can see me.”  
  
Maria gives him an apologetic smile, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing it gently.  
  
“I’m really sorry,” she says, brows knitting to express her concern. “I’m sorry that I don’t care at all.”  
  
Altair has been working long enough with Maria to know that he should duck at some point, but the downside is that Maria has also been working with _him_  for the same amount of time. So he does duck, but there’s only so much room to move in the car hop window before she can aim a direct smack against his head and yank the headset from his ear. By now it’s almost routine.  
  
“Afternoon rush is all yours, champ,” she says, and boots him out.  
  


* * *

  
Working cashier isn’t exactly terrible, but when Altair sees Malik walk through the door, he starts to reevaluate his perception of terrible.  
  
“It’s weird seeing you behind a counter and not through a window,” Malik says, once he’s waited after the three people who were ahead of him in line. He glances up at the menu, looking thoughtful.  
  
As if he hasn’t already gotten it memorized, Altair thinks, tapping his fingers against the cash register.  
  
“I thought you told me you were never ordering at here again,” he says, trying for impatience and exasperation. He’s probably failing at it, judging by how unperturbed Malik looks. Actually the opposite, in fact. To a worrying degree.  
  
“I heard there was something new on the Dollar Menu,” Malik says, still looking up. With a smirk, he reaches over and pokes Altair on the chest. “One of this.”  
  
Altair waits a moment to absorb everything in. Terrible doesn’t even cover it anymore.  
  
“A dollar?” he says flatly, turning around to look up at the board. Sure enough, his name is taped on the menu in what looks suspiciously like Maria’s handwriting. “Really? A dollar?”  
  
“I think it’s a great deal,” Malik reassures,  _actually_  taking out his wallet to pull out an  _actual_ dollar to give to Maria, who has somehow materialized beside Altair to pluck it out from his hand and breeze back to her spot by the window without comment.  
  
Altair decides that it’s best to ignore the exchange, best ignore that somehow Maria and Malik have become conniving, scheming friends while his back was turned.   
  
“Come on,” he says, offended, “I’m worth at least twelve happy meals.”  
  
Malik looks at him, long enough to convey deep sarcasm instead of genuine consideration. “Twelve is pushing it. Maybe after a shower. But only barely.”  
  
“Shower?”  
  
“Yes,” says Malik. “We’re going back to your place so you can wash up and put on something that doesn’t smell like you’ve been rolling in fries and burgers. Then I’m treating you to something that  _isn’t_  fries and burgers. And before you ask, Maria switched your shift to tomorrow, so you’re free to go.”  
  
Instead of following Malik’s advice and jumping over the counter to leave, Altair glances behind him. Maria waves back. He turns back around.  
  
“All for a dollar?” he asks, dubious. “How much did you  _actually_ pay her?”  
  
“Twelve happy meals. Now hurry up, you’ve technically been working thirty minutes for free, and your manager looks about ready to fire you anyway.”  
  
All a lie, of course – Altair’s manager loves him. He rolls his eyes a little bit, unthreatened, and Malik gives him a wry smile that convinces him more than he thinks it should.   
  
“All right,” he huffs, printing out a receipt and slapping it into Malik’s open palm. “Your order number. I’ll call when I’m ready.”


End file.
